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We at The Quill are still stunned by the death and tragic loss of our friend Lyra McKee. Sarah Kay gives us a glimpse of who she was and the strong love for life she embodied

Most of all, Lyra was an enthusiast.

She believed in writing and journalism the way one believes in an all-powerful force: it could change the world; it could alter the course of one’s life; it could shed light on obscure pains. Journalism was a calling, one born in a republican enclave of north Belfast, taking Lyra beyond walls and psychological borders to tell stories, often those that could no longer be told otherwise.

Lyra was, in a way, surrounded by death and loss. She was because she was Northern Irish; she was herself a “ceasefire baby”, as she calls the Good Friday Agreement generation, yet constantly living under the threat of violence, the calendar routine of anniversaries, memorials, and parades. She had grown familiar with it, turning her life’s work into making the dead speak: she focused on the disappeared, not necessarily those with an upper case D, but those who were lost to their communities, their families, their cities. In her book “Angels with Blue Faces”, Lyra focused on the untold and often unknown toll the Troubles had on mental health, even that of those who were not directly affected by this dark era. The suicide of ceasefire babies, one of the pieces for which she was most known, is a moment of Ulster history that few tackle. There is a culture of silence where we are from. Lyra intended to break that into pieces.

Death did not dominate her life; love did. It guided every decision she made and every relationship to which she committed. She once made a short film, a love letter to her 14 year old self, a way to say “it gets better”, but more powerful, more moving, because it acknowledged the obstacles posed by religion and tradition in a region that is engulfed by both to the point of being at a socio-political standstill. She mentions her shyness, her tendency to keep to herself, but this capacity she had, larger than life, to give love. Originally from Belfast, Lyra had moved to Derry to be with her girlfriend, Sara. She was in love. She was radiant. We had shared our relationship troubles in hushed tones, because they were supposedly less serious than the work we were undertaking. But every flutter in Lyra’s stomach was a reminder that she was alive, and she wasn’t as proud of her identity as she was to be capable of loving so entirely, so wholly, so unconditionally. She was a hopeless romantic, and her love translated to her friends and her family. Despite being non-denominational, and steering clear of what the opposite could mean in Northern Ireland, love informed her every move. It pushed her towards others, like me, and it pushed her to speak to those for whom love was just another word.

When we first met, Lyra congratulated me. “Happy to see a Belfast girl done good!” she messaged me on Twitter. I can’t remember exactly what brought her to me, sometime in 2014. I had mentioned several times that it was my goal in life to return to Northern Ireland, after having left in 2008 for the continent and for New York City. Lyra loved to travel, but she was also the primary caretaker for her disabled mother, so she mostly worked from home and asked that I sent her photos when I was on assignment or just travelling with people. She dedicated her entire life to others, either in her immediate vicinity, wanting them happy, wanting for nothing - or those she had only heard of, sources of a source of a source, that she pursued relentlessly with the persistence a veteran investigating journalist would admire. This is how she came, one night, to send me the introducing chapters for The Lost Boys. I was in The Hague and a storm was violently shaking my windows, against which heavy raindrops hit with apparent anger. Reading her words, I was immediately transported back home, where the weather was hardly any different, unfolding the stories of those without names, without public obituaries, and not counted in the official toll of the conflict.

For Lyra, it was a matter of integrity that she upheld the right to truth; a fundamental human right to tell a story meant to be forgotten; her role in Northern Ireland to investigate where police and justice had failed, and to restore, if not peace, then peace of mind. Rarely had I met someone with such unwavering strength and faith in what they wrote. She never considered the time spent with victims’ families to be a sacrifice or a necessary chore: it was the reason behind everything she collected, information, memories, photos. She believed Northern Ireland had the potential to improve as a society if it recognized every single one of its residents as its own, without sectarianism, prejudice, or fear. She worked tirelessly for inclusion, and she died at the hands of those opposing it.

Like everyone else, Lyra was profoundly unnerved by Brexit. Moving to Derry, a border town, could not have been an easy decision, but again, she did so by and for love; and at no point would she endanger herself or those alongside her. She was not reckless, but she was committed, an adjective that keeps appearing in all tributes to her and her work. No one embodied the spirit of the ceasefire generation like she did. She could see a future people my age had stopped trying to imagine; she was politically active in ways we didn’t identify; her identity was hers and hers only. No one could speak for her but herself, and few politicians in Northern Ireland can claim to grasp the torment of the dismantlement of the Good Friday Agreement the way she explained it to many. Lyra was very accomplished: a known writer, a book deal, speaking engagements, she was entirely dedicated to her cause, which was of a responsible journalism that spoke for the voiceless and stood truth to fragmented power. The victories of her friends were hers; she often liked to introduce friends so her community would enlarge; she was humble beyond understanding, and patient to the point of being saint-like.

I was looking forward to be back in Belfast next month and drag her to the old hometown so we could share a dinner at her favorite restaurant - also mine - at the heart of the city. Lyra was successful professionally, committed romantically: she was radiant, and she tapped into that fountain of happiness to distribute it to bereaved families, advocate for mental health in a country that can barely speak the word, and support LGBTQ groups when they are facing a stubborn assembly. Lyra made me proud to be from Belfast. She made me want to believe I could return to a changed, improved region, because she seemed to single-handedly be capable of doing it. That she was killed in Creggan shows the recklessness and cowardice of paramilitary groups, their disregard for human life. Lyra wanted a better country, a safer one. We should honor her by believing in it, and protecting her work.

Lyra McKee: A Love for Life

We at The Quill are still stunned by the death and tragic loss of our friend Lyra McKee. Sarah Kay gives us a glimpse of who she was and the strong love for life she embodied

Most of all, Lyra was an enthusiast.

She believed in writing and journalism the way one believes in an all-powerful force: it could change the world; it could alter the course of one’s life; it could shed light on obscure pains. Journalism was a calling, one born in a republican enclave of north Belfast, taking Lyra beyond walls and psychological borders to tell stories, often those that could no longer be told otherwise.

Lyra was, in a way, surrounded by death and loss. She was because she was Northern Irish; she was herself a “ceasefire baby”, as she calls the Good Friday Agreement generation, yet constantly living under the threat of violence, the calendar routine of anniversaries, memorials, and parades. She had grown familiar with it, turning her life’s work into making the dead speak: she focused on the disappeared, not necessarily those with an upper case D, but those who were lost to their communities, their families, their cities. In her book “Angels with Blue Faces”, Lyra focused on the untold and often unknown toll the Troubles had on mental health, even that of those who were not directly affected by this dark era. The suicide of ceasefire babies, one of the pieces for which she was most known, is a moment of Ulster history that few tackle. There is a culture of silence where we are from. Lyra intended to break that into pieces.

Death did not dominate her life; love did. It guided every decision she made and every relationship to which she committed. She once made a short film, a love letter to her 14 year old self, a way to say “it gets better”, but more powerful, more moving, because it acknowledged the obstacles posed by religion and tradition in a region that is engulfed by both to the point of being at a socio-political standstill. She mentions her shyness, her tendency to keep to herself, but this capacity she had, larger than life, to give love. Originally from Belfast, Lyra had moved to Derry to be with her girlfriend, Sara. She was in love. She was radiant. We had shared our relationship troubles in hushed tones, because they were supposedly less serious than the work we were undertaking. But every flutter in Lyra’s stomach was a reminder that she was alive, and she wasn’t as proud of her identity as she was to be capable of loving so entirely, so wholly, so unconditionally. She was a hopeless romantic, and her love translated to her friends and her family. Despite being non-denominational, and steering clear of what the opposite could mean in Northern Ireland, love informed her every move. It pushed her towards others, like me, and it pushed her to speak to those for whom love was just another word.

When we first met, Lyra congratulated me. “Happy to see a Belfast girl done good!” she messaged me on Twitter. I can’t remember exactly what brought her to me, sometime in 2014. I had mentioned several times that it was my goal in life to return to Northern Ireland, after having left in 2008 for the continent and for New York City. Lyra loved to travel, but she was also the primary caretaker for her disabled mother, so she mostly worked from home and asked that I sent her photos when I was on assignment or just travelling with people. She dedicated her entire life to others, either in her immediate vicinity, wanting them happy, wanting for nothing - or those she had only heard of, sources of a source of a source, that she pursued relentlessly with the persistence a veteran investigating journalist would admire. This is how she came, one night, to send me the introducing chapters for The Lost Boys. I was in The Hague and a storm was violently shaking my windows, against which heavy raindrops hit with apparent anger. Reading her words, I was immediately transported back home, where the weather was hardly any different, unfolding the stories of those without names, without public obituaries, and not counted in the official toll of the conflict.

For Lyra, it was a matter of integrity that she upheld the right to truth; a fundamental human right to tell a story meant to be forgotten; her role in Northern Ireland to investigate where police and justice had failed, and to restore, if not peace, then peace of mind. Rarely had I met someone with such unwavering strength and faith in what they wrote. She never considered the time spent with victims’ families to be a sacrifice or a necessary chore: it was the reason behind everything she collected, information, memories, photos. She believed Northern Ireland had the potential to improve as a society if it recognized every single one of its residents as its own, without sectarianism, prejudice, or fear. She worked tirelessly for inclusion, and she died at the hands of those opposing it.

Like everyone else, Lyra was profoundly unnerved by Brexit. Moving to Derry, a border town, could not have been an easy decision, but again, she did so by and for love; and at no point would she endanger herself or those alongside her. She was not reckless, but she was committed, an adjective that keeps appearing in all tributes to her and her work. No one embodied the spirit of the ceasefire generation like she did. She could see a future people my age had stopped trying to imagine; she was politically active in ways we didn’t identify; her identity was hers and hers only. No one could speak for her but herself, and few politicians in Northern Ireland can claim to grasp the torment of the dismantlement of the Good Friday Agreement the way she explained it to many. Lyra was very accomplished: a known writer, a book deal, speaking engagements, she was entirely dedicated to her cause, which was of a responsible journalism that spoke for the voiceless and stood truth to fragmented power. The victories of her friends were hers; she often liked to introduce friends so her community would enlarge; she was humble beyond understanding, and patient to the point of being saint-like.

I was looking forward to be back in Belfast next month and drag her to the old hometown so we could share a dinner at her favorite restaurant - also mine - at the heart of the city. Lyra was successful professionally, committed romantically: she was radiant, and she tapped into that fountain of happiness to distribute it to bereaved families, advocate for mental health in a country that can barely speak the word, and support LGBTQ groups when they are facing a stubborn assembly. Lyra made me proud to be from Belfast. She made me want to believe I could return to a changed, improved region, because she seemed to single-handedly be capable of doing it. That she was killed in Creggan shows the recklessness and cowardice of paramilitary groups, their disregard for human life. Lyra wanted a better country, a safer one. We should honor her by believing in it, and protecting her work.

The legacy of her work and the memories she leaves behind will live longer than the memory of her cowardly murderer and the pathetic self-serving words of Saroadh in his defence. Time to consign these throwbacks to the dustbin of history along with ISIS and white nationalist right terrorists.

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Anthony McIntyre

Former IRA volunteer and ex-prisoner, spent 18 years in Long Kesh, 4 years on the blanket and no-wash/no work protests which led to the hunger strikes of the 80s. Completed PhD at Queens upon release from prison. Left the Republican Movement at the endorsement of the Good Friday Agreement, and went on to become a journalist. Co-founder of The Blanket, an online magazine that critically analyzed the Irish peace process. Lead researcher for the Belfast Project, an oral history of the Troubles.